Work Text:
“Professor, we need to talk.”
Van Chapman is leaning against the doorframe to the professor’s workroom, her arms crossed tightly over her chest. Her pulse is pounding in her throat; she can feel it thump against the severed end of her arm where it meets her new prosthetic. She rolls her shoulders, still uneasy with the added weight on her left side.
Without turning around, the professor addresses her bosun. “What is it?”
“Comfrey.”
The tone of voice tips MacLeod off. She spins to face Van, her hands still full of various bits of machinery. “Van? What’s going on?”
“I can’t do this anymore, Comfrey.”
“What? The gauntlet?” She turns and tosses a few loose screws onto the desk behind her before coming to stand in front of Van. That damn wrinkle appears between her eyebrows as she inspects her handiwork. She grabs Van’s left — metal — hand and turns it back and forth. “Is it acting up again?”
“No, it’s nothing with the prosthetic. It’s working perfectly.” Van swallows. “As perfectly as I could ask for. I can’t thank you enough.”
Comfrey drops Van’s arm and moves to turn back to her work.
And isn’t that just like her, she thinks. If the problem can’t be fixed with a screwdriver or a gun, she’s got no inclination to solve it.
The problem, really, is that she’s tired. Bone-tired. Tired of running like they’re still kids, without responsibility or care, headfirst into danger like it’s a swimming pool. Tired of following orders that end up getting thrown back in her face. Tired of picking up the pieces whenever another heart breaks. Tired of being the professor’s plaything, another mechanical piece to wind up and send onward at will.
Most of all, Van is tired of playing the role of someone else’s conscience. Didn’t she have enough on her own bloody plate? Three dead brothers and a dead da, all gone the way of the deep. A mum getting worried her last surviving offspring would drown in the sky somehow. And that sense, deep in her chest, that she can never be safe, not really, not unless she really gets away.
She can’t bear to be the rational one anymore. Van can’t be the voice of reason, the superego of the Zephyr’s hivemind. Because when she does that, she loses her own mind, her autonomy. She can’t watch for herself when she’s watching for Comfrey.
She has to get off this fucking airship or she is going to end up dead. She knows it the way she knows how to blink, how to cry.
It’s not running away. It’s not.
Van sighs. “Comfrey.”
“Dammit, Van, come out and say what’s bothering you, or let me get back to this.”
“I don’t want to do this anymore.”
Comfrey’s tone turns sharp as she whips around to stare daggers at Van. “Don’t want to do what, exactly?”
Van steels herself. “I’m resigning from my post, Professor. I just— I have to—”
“No.” Comfrey steps backward. “Very funny, good joke. Seriously, Van. You know we’ve got a lot of work to do if we’re going to make departure on—”
“I’m not telling a joke, Comfrey.” She braces. “I mean it. I’m done.”
“You’ve already made up your mind, have you?” The professor scoffs and pivots away, as if the bosun has already left. “If it’s a done deal, then so be it.”
Van hesitates. “You’re not going to—”
“What do you want me to do, Van? Get on my knees and beg you to stay?” Van knows this tone of voice too well. It’s harsh. Masking what’s really happening in her head. “Doesn’t seem like a good use of my time. No, go find Haunch. He’ll see you on your way.”
MacLeod picks up her work again and resumes her tinkering. If her movements are more severe, well — only a truly practiced eye could pick up on the difference. (Van can.) She hesitates a moment more.
It’s not often she gets to see someone she loves do the work that they are truly besotted with. And she knows this may be the last time she sees this particular person work her magic. For as technical as machinery can get, there’s a true artistry to it. Marya and Comfrey could wax poetic about the beauty of making a device sing — they have done, many a late night. But talking about it is not the same as truly accomplishing it, and Comfrey can make her gadgets dance and twirl as easy as breathing, it seems.
So forgive her if she stands and watches for a moment longer.
“You don’t want to do it anymore, or you’re not willing to do it anymore?” Comfrey asks quietly.
“Both. Neither. I don’t know, Comfrey. But I have to get out of here.” Van can feel her arm — the new one — flexing with discomfort.
The silence slinks back. Oppressive. Suffocating. She’s going to drown.
“Did you have something else you wanted to say, Chapman?” Comfrey asks.
She starts. “No, I—”
“Then stop looming.” MacLeod sighs softly. “Please.”
“Right, yeah.” Van clears her throat. “I love you, Comfrey. I’ll write you.”
The stifling quiet behind her as she leaves is about what she expected. If her cheeks are damp, that’s between her and her god.